


Resonance

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Drug Use, Hints of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-29
Updated: 2005-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... signifying nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resonance

He wakes to the echoes of his scream dying on the air.

He pushes the memory away as his heart pounds so fast he can’t hear anything but its desperate cadence. Eventually it settles, and he can hear the tick of the clock, the scuttle of roaches, a distant radio, the soft susurration of traffic. No one’s knocking at his door asking about the noise. It’s not the type of neighborhood to care about someone screaming, unless it covers up the dialog from their favorite soap.

He gets up on shaking legs, making his trip to the bathroom take longer than usual. As he pees, the tinkling of water hitting water, he scratches his chest, the rasp of nails on flesh. But that sounds too close to the dream that woke him, and he stops.

He lets the water in the sink run until there’s only a mild trace of rust, washing his hands. The iron scent reminds him of blood, but he’s not thinking about it.

When the gurgle of the pipes stops, he can hear the refrigerator humming, which reminds him that he’s hungry.

He puts the bread into the toaster, popping the lever. It gives a metallic clang, an electric buzz as the coils light up in their little show. It’s very peaceful, watching the bread turn to toast, the cheery red glow.

Like the tip of a cigarette. He pops the lever up before it’s done, the clang covering up the sound of burning flesh that’s in his mind.

He drops the toast onto a plate, drops the plate on the table, plastic on Formica making a thin-sounding clatter.

He can hear the crunch of the toast from the outside, and from inside his head. He wonders idly why you can only hear from the inside of your body when you’re eating, but the thought’s too close to the type of thing he wonders about when he’s smoking pot, and, as he doesn’t have any money right now, it’s best not to think about it.

He can’t help the niggle of worry when he thinks about his too small deck of horse, but there’s always ways around that. That reminds him of the dream, and its back, and he can hear the smack of flesh, the grunts, the screams….

He’s clasping the porcelain of the toilet bowl tight, and the toast hurts coming up. His gagging, desperate breaths are covering the sound of the bread taking a dive. As it finally starts to ease, he notices that he can hear the gagging from inside his head, too. So it’s both eating and un-eating. He could really use that pot, now.

But he doesn’t have any. He does have the heroin, though, but he should hold off until he really needs it, or else he’ll be sorry later.

He looks at his shaking hands, hears the slight rasp as the string-created calluses on his fingers catch against the denim of his jeans. It’s usually need that makes his hands shake. He hates when it’s fear. Or memory. But he knows how to make it go away.

He turns his little, cheap turntable on. As he goes to fetch his gear, he can hear the smack as the album drops, the click as the needle swings around, the scratch as needle drags on vinyl. Then the music starts.

‘Pride And Joy’ is playing, Gaye’s smooth voice drowning out the refrigerator, the traffic, his neighbors. Only the flick of the lighter gets through, the soft hiss of the flame offering only the slightest counterpoint to the music, the occasional soft pop of a bubble.

Marvin’s really going now, and he doesn’t hear the soft slurp of liquid being drawn into a needle, the skritch as flesh if pinched. The pop is silent as the grave.

And then all the sounds are gone, and all the sounds are there, but it doesn’t matter. Not dreams, not toast, not noises in your head or from the street. As his magic, as his talisman floods his veins, roaring in his ears, even ‘Pride And Joy’ fades away.

/story  



End file.
